Page 8 of A Betrothal So Bloody

A tentative seed of relief starts to take root. “Is that your way of accepting my apology?”

Something dark plays upon his smile that makes my stomach flip. He closes the remaining distance between us with a single pointed stride. His movements are slow and confident, as though he knows precisely the effect this has on me. I slip my hand into the slit of my gown, closing it around the handle of my dagger.

I realize he’s deliberately drawing out the moment, and my heart gives a peculiar flutter—not quite panic, but…anticipation. The world shrinks to the inches between us, and the scent of him reaches me—clean and earthy.

He reaches out a hand, fingers curling just under my jaw while his thumb brushes my chin. I tense, but his touch is gentle. Not an attack. My breath catches as he tilts my head up. There’s still humor in his gaze, even as he searches mine—apparently ignorant to all the ways I’ve imagined dismembering him if I had to.

“You can make it up to me,” he says, “by marrying me.”

three

Mother Superior has never embraced me before. Yet when I debrief with Catarina in her private study, she gathers me into her arms as she blesses me—blesses my mission to continue. I falter before wrapping my arms around her in return, glancing at Catarina for approval.

I can’t shake the feeling that it was a farewell.

Mother Superior had looked neither pleased nor disappointed at our report. She listened to everything, dark eyes flickering as she reviewed the scrawled notes I’d managed to jot down on the carriage ride back. The only recourse was to move forward as planned, infiltrating the D’Agonisto household in the most accessible and intimate manner.

It’s long past sunset by the time we’ve returned to the abbey, following a celebratory toast and fervent planning for a small ceremony that D’Agonisto insisted would take place in two days.

Just two days, I think with a shudder. Is he mad? When dinner began, he couldn’t have looked more bored of me. What changed? I suppose he’s ready to douse the gossip and continue doing whatever the fuck he wants, a pretty enough bride haunting his villa… Or he’s a monster hoping I’m easy prey, as we suspect.

Though Mother Superior excuses me from my typical post-supper duties, I volunteer to attend tonight’s sundown drills in the undercroft. It will be a comfort to train alongside my sisters—my friends—for the last few hours I had with them.

From tomorrow onward, I will be on my own.

As far as my husband-to-be knows, I’m preparing for the wedding—which isn’t a lie, technically. But I’m sure he assumes I’m fussing over the flowers of my bouquet—not training for the honor of slaying him.

“Let us see the ring, Ariya,” Chiara says in a hush.

At once, Antonella and Gia perk, distracted from choosing their weapons from the rack upon the stone wall.

I glance at the other side of the vast undercroft to be sure the other two training groups are too busy to overhear. The sliding vertical cage doors clang open across the dungeon, and some vampiric captives wrench backward into the shadows, while others snarl and launch toward the slayers in training—at least as far as their silver chains will allow. The noise provides more than enough cover to keep our conversation private.

Lifting my hand, I show my friends the fede ring Dante had presented to me for what must be the shortest betrothal in history. The yellow-gold band bears the traditional motif of two clasped hands, with one pinprick-sized ruby on each side. It’s slightly too large, so I must wear it on my first finger instead of the Roman tradition of my fourth.

“The same ring his grandfather gave to his grandmother—so he claims,” I say, then return my attention to the rack. I select a short sword. Like all the other weapons in the training hall, the blade is kept dull so as to encourage maiming rather than killing.

Gia takes the liberty of pulling the heavy chain hoist that hangs from the rafters, opening the cage doors of our opponents. This pair of captives has no qualms about immediately scrabbling forward to the extent their chains allow. Beautiful features have eroded into the demonic—skin stretched tight and yellowing, eyes sunken and bloodshot. They are starved to the point of being little more than ravenous animals.

Some slayers are given the duty of hunting down vampires and weakening them just enough to bring them back to the abbey. There’s an art to picking prime candidates. None of the captives in the training hall are old enough to have the power or manipulation to break free. They will wither to nothing, what’s left of their feeble existence only meant to serve the good of the Order’s mission.

Antonella gets into position alongside Gia, and the two of them work in tandem to make the first strikes at one of the vampires.

“Are you nervous?” Chiara asks softly, narrowing the conversation to the two of us. “You can tell me.”

Always perceptive, always empathetic. Chiara is now the only one of our bunkmates who has not been offered a solo assignment, but she is barely twenty-two. As the years passed with no mission granted to me, I feel that we have only grown closer, pushing each other to our limits during training. Her time will come soon—that I can be sure, after seeing her work during group missions.

But her question rattles me more than I care to admit.

No fear. No weakness.

Forcing a smile, I lift my sword. “I am honored to finally serve my family and the world as I should.” I lunge at the second vampire and draw a jagged slice across its clavicle. It howls, enraged by the pain, and claws toward me.

Chiara doesn’t appear to believe me, but she doesn’t pry. She surges past me and slams the vampire against the brick wall, turning her head this way and that to avoid its snapping teeth. She drives her stake just short of piercing its heart—a carefully missed death blow. The vampire slumps, needing to recuperate before being of any further use.

“You must admit this assignment is unique,” Chiara says, raising her voice to include the other girls. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Neither have I,” Antonella says, panting as she pulls back to join us. “I suppose pretending to be a willing thrall is the closest I’ve experienced to anything so intimate.” She shivers, wiping blood from her blade. “I’m in no hurry to visit Sicily again after that assignment.”